


Haradrim Nights

by Mirach



Series: Aragorn in peril [10]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Back to Middle-Earth Month, Burns, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends, Friendship, Gen, Harad, Hurt Aragorn, Male Friendship, Minor Character Death, Not Beta Read, Pre-War of the Ring, Short Chapters, The Haradrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 18,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23301115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach
Summary: The adventures of Captain Thorongil under the hot sun of Harad - fragrant nights, oriental smells and music, merciless desert, sharp sabres, honour, treachery and unexpected friendship.This story was written for the Back to Middle-earth month 2011. It is one continuous story, using all the prompts of the event. Every day of March, a new prompt was revealed and I added a chapter to the story, having no idea where it will take me. I must say I was rather surprised how well it turned out at the end, creating a solid plot I would have never thought of otherwise.
Series: Aragorn in peril [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1508084
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14
Collections: Back to Middle-earth Month 2011: Passport to Middle-earth





	1. The Dancer

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a native speaker and this story was not beta read, there will probably be a few mistakes. The chapters are short, so I will post two or three per day with the exception of Monday and Friday when I'm updating my Good Omens story. It is complete under my FFN profile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1:  
> Challenge - Nan Elmoth: Voltaire said that it's not enough to conquer: one must learn to seduce. Write a story or poem or create artwork where seduction plays a central role.

Feet barely touching the ground.

Step light like the sweet breath of summer.

Veil – butterfly wings, covering and yet revealing, spinning a web of intricate dance, a soft mist before his eyes.

Sun fell into a glass of wine and kissed her lips.

Reflections of nomads' fires in the raven wings of the night sky became the light in her eyes.

She danced just for him. The deep, earthy rhythm of drums matching his heartbeat.

She danced – a fairy-tale of fragrant haradrim nights.

She danced, inviting him to become lost in her eyes.

He averted his face.

Her light steps came closer; he could feel her breath – cinnamon and jasmine.

She was so close, so real.

There was another. She was far, so far now. And she would have never known. He was a man…

The wine was heady; its rich taste bittersweet on his tongue.

So far… But he would know. He wouldn't be worthy of her.

Captain Thorongil raised his gaze to meet the burning coals of the girl's eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered softly, and left the tavern, leaving a silver coin on the table.


	2. Beautiful Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2:  
> Challenge - Losgar: Defiance is defined as the willingness to contend or fight. Write a story or poem or create artwork where the characters defy authority in some way.

The light of receding moon glistened on the blade of a dagger.

A slim figure crossed the street like a black cat and merged with the shadows, a shadow herself. The white of her teeth flashed for a moment as she remembered the tales of a black cat crossing the street bringing bad luck. Bad luck equalled death when dealing with this cat…

She found him at the border of the desert. He was leaning on a stone and looking at the stars. Her lips curled in a slight smile. She knew how the night sky here can absorb a man if he is not careful – it was so easy to become lost in the mysterious depths between the stars and forget the outside world. He will never know how he became lost in it forever when death covers him with her wing. It will be a beautiful death…

She moved with the silent grace of a predator, as quiet as the warm desert breeze. She was right behind him. Just one step divided them. One thrust of a dagger. He didn't know about her. He never will.

"Arwen…" he whispered, a barely audible sigh from his lips. It sounded like a name of a woman…

She stopped the hand with the dagger for a short moment. Who was she?, she wondered. When she danced, she knew he wanted her. She saw it in his eyes. But he left, and made her task harder. She was paid to kill this man, this stranger from the North. Seduce him, take him to her room, and give him a beautiful death. But he resisted her charm, and she wondered why. Who was the other woman that he loved her so?

She hesitated for too long. She made no sound, but with some warrior instinct, he realized her presence, and turned sharply… to face the deadly point of the dagger directed at his heart that had place only for one woman.

His eyes meet hers. He recognized her even under the black hood – the slight scent of cinnamon and jasmine, the burning coals of eyes. She only had to press the dagger, and the fire in his eyes would be extinguished forever.

But she didn't do it. She looked into his eyes, and suddenly wondered how it would feel, to know such love like he felt to the unknown woman. How would it feel to be on her place… For the first time in her life, she defied her orders, and lowered the dagger.

"Return to her…" she whispered, and in the next moment, only the gust of wind remained on the place where she stood, the scent of cinnamon and jasmine dissolving in the darkness of the night.


	3. Red Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3:  
> Challenge - Vinyamar: Some people have difficulty embracing changes and moving on. Write a story or poem or create artwork that shows the consequences of refusing to change.

He saw her again in the morning.

Her hair, dark like the midnight sky flowed freely in the breeze. Her eyes were directed at the sky, at the sun rising where just a few hours ago the night spread her wings. She was beautiful.

She was dead.

The scent of cinnamon and jasmine still lingered around her, and the rich, earthy tune of her skin almost didn't betray the paleness of death. But her eyes, those deep, dark wells with fire burning in their depths – they were cold, the fire extinguished. She was looking unblinking into the blazing sun, but she didn't see it anymore.

He knelt near her, and didn't move for a long time while the sun rose on the sky. He traced the features of her face with his gaze. The high cheek-bones, the almond-shaped eyes. The full lips. A deadly beauty…

Now he knew that she was an assassin. She wanted to seduce and kill him - and then just kill when the first part of her plan failed. But she did not. He could feel the point of her dagger against his heart. He could see the glint in her eyes, like a big cat preparing for a kill. But then her eyes revealed something else just for a short moment. A woman, longing for love… And then she left.

He tried to follow her tracks when the sun rose. He wanted to find out why she wanted him dead. Instead, he found somebody wanted _her_ death for not fulfilling her task…

It must have happened right before the first ray of the sun appeared on the sky. He wondered if she saw it – the pink paleness of the dawn when the sun is still gentle and the stars are just beginning to retreat before its light. Maybe she did. Her face was peaceful, and there was a slight smile on her lips. She saw the first ray of light, and her soul could follow it into the oases of the ancestors, as the people of this land believed. A red flower of her blood blossomed in the white sand of the desert, a rose in the barren land. It was a beautiful death…

He closed her eyes gently, and lifted her slim body. She was light, more a fairy-tale than a woman. He carried her several yards, where the soil was more firm, and the wind would not blow it away. There he began digging a grave.

He knew her murderer might get far away in that time. He might even make new plans for his own death. She also had time to get away, to begin a new life after she failed to fulfil the task. She did not. She would have to leave all her life behind. Maybe she would even find the love that her eyes begged for… She did not leave. The insecurity of the change made her stay – and killed her.

He could not leave her so, either, her beauty falling prey to the scavengers. The sun was already setting when he finished, having only his hands and a dagger for tools. He gently lowered her into the grave, and then the soil covered her beauty forever as she became one with it.

He realized he never knew her name.


	4. Lengthening Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4:  
> Challenge - Mithrim: "There would be no one to frighten you if you refused to be afraid." -Ghandi  
> Write a story or poem or create artwork where the character conquers his or her fears.

Only a thin slice remained from the sun now, bathing the sand of the desert in bloody red. His shadow was long, as long as if it would contain all his failures and unfulfilled hopes. Thorongil was still kneeling near the unmarked grave. His water skin was almost empty now, and he didn't eat anything during the day, but he couldn't force himself to stand up and go to the tavern where he left all his provisions. Maybe somebody is already waiting for him there, a sharp dagger in the darkness, or just a drop of poison in a drink. That he could face. But there will be quiet tonight, or even another dancer, and when he will look into her eyes, he will see the eyes of the girl that died because of him. And that he couldn't bear. Not yet.

He remained between the lengthening shadows of his own failures. She spared his life only to find her own death. Another who died because of him. The faces of many appeared in his mind. Rangers from the North. Soldier of Gondor. Good men who will never return to their families. They all fell under his command. Some even saved his life. He didn't even know some of their names, just like the name of this woman.

Was it worth it?, he asked himself. So many hopes were put into him. Will he fail them at the end? The world seemed to consist of shadows and doubts, and the last ray of light just disappeared behind the horizon. Somewhere in the desert, a jackal howled. The messenger of death, they called it here. Did it announce the death of his hopes, here, under the strange stars of a distant land? Or was it the death of all that will yet have to die for the uncertain path of his destiny?

He sighed heavily. The air was already getting cooler, although the rocks still emanated the heat of the day. The land was foreign to him. He missed the whisper of wind in the trees, the cool shade near a hidden pool, the soft and fresh grass under his feet. Here the sun was cruel, and the land shaped by it.

After the sun set and left the world in darkness, another light rose. A star appeared in the sky, a little point of clear light. The Evenstar… He smiled slightly, for as more and more stars blossomed on the sky, he could see the desert in a different light. There were no shadows in the starlight. The dunes stretched to the horizon, and there was a strange, harsh beauty in them. Merciless but just was the desert. It did not care for him or his destiny. The land was harsh to its people, but there was beauty in her, burning deep like the fire in the eyes of the dancer. A deadly beauty. Now he understood her…

And he could not stay here any longer. There was so much work to do, so many obstacles to overcome to give meaning to the sacrifices. He stood up, and headed to the tavern.


	5. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5:  
> Challenge - Menegroth: Write a story or poem or create artwork that will illustrate the consequences of isolation.

The streets were strangely quiet. Usually there would be music, the smell of spices and cooking meals, the chatter of many voices. The day here stopped under the merciless rays of noon, and began again in the evening, melting its scents and tones into the soft darkness of the night. Now it was quiet.

Thorongil kept to the shadows, all his senses alert and ready to fight. His eyes glistened like the eyes of an eagle, but he knew he is not the hunter tonight. He didn’t know the one he tried to pursue, while the other knew him. He was the prey that tries to turn the hunt. 

The tavern was dark when he approached it. He retreated deeper into the shadow at the other side of the street, and drew the dagger. Without a movement, he watched the building. Nothing moved. Nobody went in or out. He felt like in an illusion. But what was the illusion? The full tavern, people, colours, dance and music yesterday, or the emptiness and silence now?

If he wouldn’t stay to bury the girl, maybe he would know what happened here. Yesterday he left the tavern to be alone, and now – he felt like the only living soul in the city, and it was unnerving. Was there a raid of some unknown enemies? But then there would be traces in the city, fire and blood, or at least destroyed stalls of the merchants. But the stalls stood in their places – just the merchants and their wares were not there. Everything was like it used to be. Just the people were missing.

It could be a trap, Thorongil thought as he watched the empty streets with wary gaze. But he could not imagine how someone could want his death quietly, by the hands of an assassin, and then involve the entire city in a trap to get him when he avoided that fate. No, something else must have happened here while he was alone in the desert. Maybe he should leave while he can. Leave the oppressive silence of the city behind, leave the memories of the girl’s eyes behind. No, he could not. They would follow him wherever he would go. The one who wanted his death would follow him too, and he did not like to run before a danger. It was better to stand up and face it, then expect it to attack from behind while running before it.

Quietly he followed the shadows to the back entrance of the tavern. He stood right on the place where the girl was hiding just one day ago, but he did not know it. He pressed the door handle carefully. The door was not locked. His eyes already used to the darkness, he could see the faint contours of the kitchen. It was dark and empty like everything in the city.

He walked through the kitchen to the main hall. Carpets and cushions on the floor awaited customers, but nobody used them today. The room he hired a few days ago was upstairs, but he was hesitant to go there. Something was not right in the room…

Dagger ready, he made a few steps towards the stairs.

A quiet, metallic sound made his blood run cold. The sound of a drawn sabre.

As quick as a thought he turned around. He saw a dark figure, shadow among shadows, and the cold glistening of steel in his hand. The figure didn’t move, though, and so he didn’t attack either.

“Where are the people?” he asked.

A cold laugh was his answer. “They are all home. In the Night of the Dancing Death, nobody walks out. But a stranger like you would not know that.” The last words were accompanied by a dark sneer and the sound of drawn steel from all around the room.


	6. Night of the Dancing Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 6:  
> Challenge - Lake Helevorn: Greed is good! Write a story or poem or create artwork that will prove or disprove this statement.

Death danced tonight.

Her veil was darkness. Her eyes the bottomless pits of oblivion.

Her lips the hot blood flowing from wounds.

Her steps – the flashing blades in the dim moonlight.

The Night of the Dancing Death.

Everything was happening at once and yet lasted eternally. The short moment of avoiding a falling blade lasted a lifetime in a wink of eye.

Blades and bodies were one, muscle and steel both serving the cruel whims of one mistress. One couldn't avoid her by staying at home. It was her night, and she demanded what belonged to her. A sacrifice.

A jackal howled again.

A cry of pain ended abruptly.

Then it was quiet.

The night began breathing again. The curtains moved in a weak gust of wind. The sabres returned to their scabbards.

A candle lit, its flame reflecting in the growing stain of blood on the floor.

A sharp intake of breath.

"You fools! It is not him!"

The light of the candle revealed a face. Not the pale features of the stranger, but a tanned and unshaved face, a local. There was a bag at his belt, and peaking from it a silver candleholder, the same like those in the tavern.

"A thief…" someone muttered with disgust.

Death claimed her sacrifice.

And meanwhile, a limping shadow slipped away through the empty streets.


	7. Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7:  
> Challenge - Belegost: Overcoming prejudices is as hard in Middle-earth as in our primary universe. Write a story or poem or create artwork where the characters try to reach across racial or gender or any other barrier.

She was alone in her small home. More a cottage than house, but home nevertheless, she thought as she went to the window to draw the curtain. The draught made it loose again, and that was not good. When Death danced in the streets, one shouldn't look.

She paused for a moment, thinking what would happen if she looked. She has lived long enough to be more curious then afraid. It could very well be her that the Dancing One will take with her tonight. With a sigh she drew the curtain, and returned to the shaky table. A single candle burned in the room, and painted a map of shadows over her face, rough and wrinkled like the face of the desert itself.

The flame wavered.

Someone knocked on the door.

Her heart beat faster. She heard it like a bell echoing in the entire room. Did Death really come for her? And if she did, was there any reason to resist? She has lived a full life. She buried a husband, and raised four children. There was nothing left for her, just days spent in memories and waiting. She waited for the door to open.

But they did not. The knocking was repeated, as quiet as before but more urgent somehow. She stood up, and slowly made her way to the door. Strange, she was calm again. She was not afraid… more curious, really.

She opened the door – and nearly cried out. She would not be afraid to look into the face of Death – but facing her was a stranger. She wanted to shut the door close, but he leaned his hand on the weak doorframe and stopped her.

"Please," he said quietly, with a strange accent. "I just need some water…" his words were accompanied by a demonstration of the empty water-skin, as if he wouldn't be sure if she understands him.

She frowned, measuring him from head to toe. What was he doing out during this night? "There is a well before the tavern," she said with reserve.

He shook his head, and looked behind as if someone was after him.

She looked into his eyes. He returned the look honestly. She watched long and careful, and something she saw made her change her opinion. "Come in…" she said shortly, and stepped aside from the door.

The expression of gratitude in his face after she took the water skin from his hand and went to refill it from the water she was saving for cooking warmed her heart in a way that she didn't experience for a long time.

"Here…" she put a little sack of dates into his hand together with the full water skin.

He wanted to exchange it for a coin, but she shook her head in resolute refusal.

He put his hand on his heart and bowed in a gesture of thankfulness… and in the next moment he was gone and only the dancing flame of the candle betrayed the gust of wind that brushed past the closing door.

She wondered who he was. But he did not tell, and she did not ask. Maybe it was better this way…


	8. Green Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 8:  
> Challenge – Dorthonion: Write a story or poem or create a piece of artwork reflecting identification with or connection to one's land, country or culture. Or write a story or poem or create a piece of artwork featuring kilts.  
> (Sorry, no kilts here!)

One foot before the other. Again. And again. Steadily, patiently. Thorongil walked through the desert.

The pale dawn coloured the dunes to all shades of pink. Soon the sun will rise, and change the sand to a glowing forge.

Once in a while he looked behind, to see if someone is following him, but he could see only sand and his own uneven tracks – the cut almost stopped bleeding by now, but still he was limping to relieve the injured leg. It was not even a blade that caused the wound, but the broken glass of a window that he used to escape – there must be some irony in that, he thought, but soon the blinding rays of sun pierced all thoughts.

He shielded his eyes, and could see the green spots under his eyelids that the sun imprinted there. Green, the colour he missed most. Oh, how he missed it, and the distant northern lands of his home – the green lands…

_The grassy hills, soft under the feet of a wanderer. The scent of meadow flowers in the sun, warm but gentle like the linden trees purring in the lazy afternoon with the voices of bees._

The hot, merciless sun ascended over the desert - a sovereign ruler on a golden throne, demanding everything to bow to her will.

_The cool shade of woods, the green silence under the branches of mighty trees. The wet moss and rotting wood – the rich and earthy scent of the forest secrets._

Dry and parched soil. Bleached bones. And sand - sand everywhere. It was in his boots, in his hair, under the piece of cloth that he used to bandage the cut…

_The sound of water… The merry sprinkle of a spring rain. The broad and calm river, singing softly to the willows that bath their branches in her waters. The proud storm over the mountaintops. The many-voiced choir of the waterfalls in Rivendell…_

He took a gulp from the water skin. The water was warm, but he knew its price here. Often it was the price of life… He drank just a little to moisten his parched lips, hoping the water will be enough to reach the nearest settlement. The desert was unforgiving…

_The mountains, towering proudly over the land. The wild and dangerous beauty… Rays of sun flowering on the hillsides, the grey twilight falling into the gnarly embrace of old pines. The wind playing the pipes of the sharp rocks, and air near the snow-covered mountaintops – so clear and crisp, fresh as if no living being has breathed it yet…Cruel, too. The weather changing from one hour to another, the merciless winds and dangerous passes. As cruel and unforgiving as the desert…_

He looked around again, and suddenly a little smile appeared on his lips. He could understand the people living here, the beauty of the desert. It was much like the beauty of the mountains. The raw power of the sun, the ever-changing shapes of dunes - a reminder of how unstable is everything in this land, and yet beautiful in the perishableness. He could understand the hot beauty of the South, but his hearth belonged to the green North.

He walked, a little dot in the desert, while in the sky the sun neared her zenith.


	9. Tracks in the Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 9:  
> Challenge - Nargothrond: Write a story or poem or create artwork where the characters have to decide between loyalty or betrayal.

The old woman watched the desert. Her eyes glistened in the shade of the head-cloth like deep wells with a calm surface. Somewhere there the stranger walked away from this city, away from her life, the wind wiping his tracks away as if he would have never existed. Like her life, when she goes. The little house will be swallowed – either by the city or the desert; her children will age and die, following her on the path. And then… the wind will carry away the memories of her just like the vanishing tracks. She was not afraid.

She turned her face to the tall man waiting for her answer.

"No, I have not seen him," she said, and calmly looked into his eyes.

She could not read any emotion in them. They were black like polished obsidian, and just as hard. He made one step closer, and the sun reflected in the blade of his sabre. Sharp and deadly was its edge, as it seemed to cut the hot wind blowing from the desert in two – its song hissed like snakes winding around the blade. Like cobras whose bite brings death.

"I know you are lying to me," he said with a quiet menace in his voice.

"Maybe…" she smiled. "Would you like some lentil soup? I just cooked it, and it will get cold…"

It seldom rained in the desert. When a storm came, it was often just wind and lightning in the dark, menacing clouds. Such a lightning she saw in the man's eyes now – the menace of approaching storm.

And then the clouds dissolved, and his laugh fell like rain on the land.

"Thank you, but we are not hungry," he said when he stopped laughing. "And we don't kill old women for courage. May the spirits of the desert bless you," he said, and mounted his horse. His men followed him.

The old woman watched the desert. A cloud of dust rose under the hooves of vigorous horses. Slowly the thunder of hooves faded in the distance and the dust settled. The wind wiped the tracks, as if they would have never existed.

She smiled, thinking about loyalty and mercy. Maybe something endures after all…


	10. The Wrath of the Desert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 10:  
> Challenge - Gondolin: Start a story or poem with Charles Dickens' famous opening line from A Tale of Two Cities: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." (If you're creating a piece of artwork for this challenge, use this line as your theme or title.)

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the fury of the desert, it was the chance to escape his pursuers. It was a cloud of dust unsettled by the hooves of swift horses on the horizon behind. It was a much bigger cloud of dust ahead, whirling like intertwined snakes and howling like a pack of wargs. It was… a sandstorm.

Thorongil felt his heartbeat quicken as he watched the approaching wall of sand. It was impressive, if he could watch it from afar. That it would be here soon was… ominous. He hoped his pursuers would give up in the face of such threat. But he had no other option than to prepare for it the best he could.

He wrapped the head cloth he wore against the burning sun in the manner of the local people around his nose and mouth, and looked around for anything that could provide him at least a bit of shelter. There were rocks nearby, heated by the sun and half-buried in sand. The wall of the storm neared with disturbing speed. He walked to the rocks. He ran. The distance seemed to stretch. Sand entangled his feet, making every step difficult. He could feel the bite of the sharp grains of sand on his skin, even through the layer of clothes.

He reached the meagre shelter of the rock, and had barely time to cover his eyes. Then it began.

The air full of sand. The roaring of the wind. The world turned to chaos. Sand and wind became one – whirling, whipping, lashing. Difficult to breath. Difficult to think. And sand everywhere, sharp and rough. The worst of times – for there was no other time he could think of. He did not care for the pursuers anymore – it even took too much effort to breathe.

With closed eyes, his face buried in his arms for protection, he could only hear the howling of the wind. Deafening, wailing sound. He could feel the anger of the storm on his very skin, the hot breath of the desert , the sand in his hair, in his nostrils, between his teeth . He could feel the wound on his leg bleeding again, and the sand sticking to the fresh blood. His world was darkness and sand and roar of wind. Nothing else existed in this moment, unbearable long. He had no idea how much time has passed. It could be moments or hours. The sandstorm made the world different, made the flow of time different, made him feel powerless against the wrath of the desert.

The storm raged. His throat was desperately dry, but he could not drink without exposing his mouth and inhaling a mouthful of sand. He could feel his perception fading and sharpening, the sounds becoming strangely muted and then unbearably loud again. There were moments that he was not aware of… It was the best time to gather all his will to survive.


	11. Sacrifices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 11:  
> Challenge - Himring: "Peace demands the most heroic labor and the most heroic sacrifices." -Thomas Merton  
> Write a story or poem or create artwork where characters make sacrifices in order to achieve their goals.

"Keep together! Keep together!" Kadar tried to shout through the roar of the nearing storm, and nudged his horse to run faster. But the animal needed no encouragement – it sensed the danger behind, and ran like a black lightning, a wild spirit of the wind. Black mane flowing. Trembling nostrils, eyes glistening like a fiery night.

Horses and riders, moving like one. Rhythm of powerful muscles. Clouds of sand stirred by the hooves. Faster, faster! Faster than the storm, faster than the wind. No looking back. _Yalla! Yalla!_

The wall of sand nearing. High, dark, ominous. The spirits of the desert are hungry. Wailing and howling in their anger. The powerful gusts of wind, sharp sand reaching the horse and rider. And on the horizon, the first houses of the city. _Yalla!_

Empty streets. Closed doors and windows whipped by the wind. Just one door was open.

The old woman smiled after they entered, leaving the horses in the lee side of the house. "I wondered if you would make it in time…"

Kadar unwound his head cloth, and shook his head to get rid of the sand in his hair. The walls of the cottage shook under the gusts of the wind, but it held fast. The calm inside was almost unnatural.

He smirked. "It seems we must thank you…" he stopped as he followed her sight. She was surveying his men, looking for someone. _No, we did not catch him,_ he wanted to answer the question in her eyes with amusement, but the words froze on his lips. Two of his men were missing…

"Nadhir and Faris?" he asked quietly, but the downcast looks of his men told him the truth.

"We have lost them in the storm…" someone dared to answer.

Kadar heavily sat down on the only chair in the room.

"We can look for them when the storm passes. Maybe they found some shelter…"

He shook his head. "We have no time. We must get the stranger." His fists clenched as he looked somewhere into the distance, beyond the raging storm.


	12. The Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 12:  
> Challenge - Falls of Sirion: Elves are one with Nature. What about Men? Hobbits? Dwarves? Write a story or poem or create artwork where the way different races relate to Nature is shown.

Water rippled somewhere nearby. He opened his eyes, and squirmed against the bright light that filtered through the green canopy. The sun was right above, in her zenith, painting a mosaic of light and shadow on the forest floor. He could hear the whispering of the leaves, buzzing of insects, the clear sound of water… and voices? He turned in the directions where the voices came from. The undergrowth was thick there, and he could not see who is speaking.

"Sister, you know they are hurting you. Why do you allow it?" said a musical, male voice.

A quiet laughter sounded, gentle like little bells in the wind, and yet there were also deeper, more dangerous tones in it, like a gathering thunderstorm. "They shape me as well as they shape themselves. Their lives are short, they cannot understand me like you do."

"We do not, Lady. We don't ask for you love, just for your riches." Another voice said, sounding somehow grumpy.

The voice of the lady was also cold and reserved as she answered. "And you will get them, if you remember our deal. With too much greed you would destroy yourself before me."

Then her voice softened. "And what about you, my little ones? Do you ask for nothing?"

"Oh…. no. No, thank you." The voice that responded was shy and humble. "You have given us enough of your fruits. We just ask for peace and quiet…"

She sighed heavily. "You don't want to ask for anything, and yet you ask too much. I cannot give you what you desire. But there is one who could…"

Suddenly she turned to the place where Aragorn was listening to the conversation. "I awaited you, my husband…"

He stepped out of the bushes with bathed breath. He could see her now. There were also other figures on the clearing, but he could perceive only her, his attention drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She was beautiful, young and old in the same time, the wisdom in her face timeless. "I do not know you, lady…" he breathed out.

She laughed. "Don't you?" And suddenly he saw her face, and it was not her face. It was the deep quiet of the ancient woods, the sharp slopes of the mountains, the lush meadows of the Shire, and as if from nowhere, a song came to his mind, reverberating in the air he breathed and in the soil beneath his feet.

_I am the land  
I am the stone  
I am its breath  
I am its bone_

_I am the song  
brought with the wind  
Ever present  
but never seen_

_I am the spark  
in the lake's eyes  
The arms of trees  
And wings of night_

_As old as hills  
As deep as sea  
Forever young  
Forever free..._

"You are the land…" he whispered.

She nodded. "I am a sister to the Elves, for we walk the paths of fate together, bound to each other. To Dwarves I am a ruler. They do not love me, but fear and respect. Hobbits are my children, innocent and trusting. But I cannot protect them…"

Aragorn nodded quietly, knowing the task of the Rangers. "It is my role…"

"It is the role of my husband. Of a King…"

He felt the burden of responsibility on his shoulders, the responsibility for the entire land he should rule. But there was a sense of fulfilment in that responsibility.

"I'm waiting for you, Aragorn. Remember that, even if I am cruel and unmerciful. For I am a woman…" She smiled, and the radiance of her smile were the sharp rays of sun and in her arms he could see the vast barrens of the desert, the hot breath of wind and rough embrace of sand.

The heat surrounded his body like thick oil, making it hard to breathe. He forced his eyelids that seemed glued together, to open. The light was blinding, but he could pick up voices.

"Why can't we just kill him or leave him here? The desert will kill him anyways…"

"No," another voice said, with the firm tone of a leader. "We will not _just_ kill him."

Aragorn didn't like the tone of the word _just,_ but felt too weak to do anything about it. Thorongil, not Aragorn… he reminded himself absentmindedly. He was Thorongil here… Stars and eagles… The world seemed to spin again.

Water rippled somewhere nearby… No, it was in his mouth! He drank deeply, not asking where it comes from, although he had the feeling that the question will return once, and with urgency. But now, as his eyes closed, he could see the face of the Lady in the dunes of the desert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem was written by me a few years ago and seemed fitting to use in this chapter.


	13. Black Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 13:  
> Challenge - Balar: Write a story or poem or create artwork featuring unanswered requests, prayers or pleas.

Between blinding light and red darkness, there was a place of silence. He didn't want to leave that place and find out it was no dream. But what was a dream? Maybe he didn't want to find out it _was_ just a dream? There were two pictures in his mind, two names. There were the green woods where he was Aragorn, and there was the picture of a hot, merciless desert that Thorongil walked. There was pain, and thirst, and deadly danger in the second picture… _Oh Elbereth, please, let it be a dream…_

Ah yes. Heat, too… The greenery of the forest faded to make place for the harsh reality. It was no dream. He was lying in the sand of the desert, and his hands and feet were firmly bound with a rough rope.

Someone called worlds in a strange language, which his mind identified as Haradhrim only a few moments later. "He is waking," were the words.

There was no point in pretending to be unconscious, so he slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the point of a dagger.

"One movement, and you will feed the jackals," a voice hissed from somewhere behind, clearly belonging to the owner of the dagger. Thorongil found it unwise to investigate more, for it would involve movement. The voice was as cold as steel, and just as deadly serious.

Beyond the dagger he could see just the cloudless sky like the reflection of spilled blood in a broken mirror. The sun was setting, the day dying.

His thoughts were broken as he was jerked upright, and found himself looking into a pair of dark, glistening eyes. The dagger moved to his throat.

"Just kill him already…" another voice said somewhere nearby, its accent strange even for this part of Harad, like the hissing of a snake. "That's what my master paid you for."

"No! This is not your master's business anymore! He killed my sister!"

What? His sister? – Thorongil wanted to ask, to say that he didn't kill anybody, but as he opened his mouth, the attention of the black eyes turned to him again, and the point of the dagger pressed more firmly on his throat. He could feel a drop of blood running down his neck.

Indeed, the sun was setting, he noted subconsciously as his mind feverishly struggled to find out what the black eyes are talking about.

Suddenly, as the rays of the day's fiery death reflected in those eyes, he was reminded of another fire. Eyes like burning coals and lips like red wine and molten copper. Cinnamon and jasmine.

Pieces fell into each other. He was her brother…


	14. Jackal and Lion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 14:  
> Challenge - Armenelos: Write a story or create a piece of art centred on freedom of religion (or lack thereof), heresy, and/or religious rites.

Kadar's anger was like the point of the dagger held on the stranger's throat. His sister – the beautiful desert rose – was dead. Her blood was on the hands of the man before him.

"Be careful what you do, Kadar!" the snake-voice hissed again. "My master wants his head!" - it sounded like someone unused to be denied he or his master wants.

Kadar growled, finally turning away from the stranger. "He can have it later. Our gods demand vengeance. Make sure he is ready…" he addressed the last order to the two men behind him. Then he left. He saw the man want to tell him something, but he didn't care. Nothing that he could say would bring Rasha back.

He walked away from the murderer. Yes, they were both paid to kill him, but he was just a pale northerner. The gods of the desert did not care if he dies. But Rasha… she was a precious jewel, and there was no punishment in the world just enough for the one who extinguished the light of her eyes. He could not bear the sight of the man any longer – he turned away from him and watched the sunset over the desert, preparing for what will come in the night.

Quiet, stealthy steps approached from behind. He turned in a bare wink of eye, dagger drawn. "Nazim…" he breathed out through clenched teeth when he saw the man who hired him. He did not lower the dagger, however.

"Do you really want to go through the whole ritual just for that northern dog?" the smaller man whose accent reminded the hissing of a snake asked with a scowl, ignoring the dagger.

Kadar looked straight into his eyes. He looked straight through them, driving his look into the man's skull like a knife. He didn't tell a word, but the man averted his eyes. A jackal knew when to pull his tail between his legs and retreat before a lion. But not Nazim, it seemed. "Why risk so? You have him in your hands. He will die anyway. Your gods certainly do not care for someone like him…"

The dagger shot forwards like an attacking snake, and stopped right before his face. "Keep your tongue behind your teeth if you want to keep it!" Kadar hissed.

Nazim made a careful step backwards, but Kadar followed him, eyes flashing. "You know nothing about the gods of the desert. You know nothing about the spirits! It does not matter who he is. They demand vengeance, blood for blood. And it must be done properly for them to accept it!"

Nazim didn't dare to answer, but made a few more steps away. Kadar didn't follow him anymore, but kept the dagger drawn. "Do it then. Do it as you want, but if my master doesn't get what he paid you for because of it, then you will pay yourself!"

With that Nazim turned, and walked away quickly. "You fool…" he muttered when he was out of Kadar's sight. "Desert has no gods or spirits. There is only the Eye…"


	15. Eat Like There's No Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 15:  
> Challenge - Shire: The cuisine of the Shire is unsurpassed. Write a story or poem, or create a work of art, featuring food.

Thorongil watched the man walk away without looking at him anymore, his hope to explain what happened vanishing like the mist in a morning. But in this country, there were no mists. Even if he got a chance, nobody would listen to him. He was a stranger, a northerner. Was there any hope for him at all? Even if it seemed like waiting for a miracle, he refused to give up and admit there is none. For if he does that, it will become true…

He could not move in his bonds, but he turned his head to see what his guards are doing. Their leader told them to make sure he is ready for something – and he better didn't want to imagine for what. But since he left, they didn't even look at him, apparently trusting the ropes he was bound with. As he tried the bonds, he found out they had no reason not to – his hands and feet were already getting numb, but the ropes held fast.

The guards meanwhile built fire from the dry palm leaves and wood. First when the flames were hungrily licking the wood, they looked at him, their expression unreadable. He returned their look, showing no fear.

One of them stood up, and walked in his direction. The other followed soon, but neither of them looked into his eyes. The first drew a knife.

Thorongil felt his heart beating faster. The fire, the knife… He sent a quick prayer to Elbereth, preparing for the worst. The knife neared. He could see the flames with the corner of his eye, winding around the wood like hungry snakes. They reflected in the blade, reflected in his captors' eyes. The knife neared. He did not close his eyes. It lowered…

…and cut his bonds.

He blinked in surprise, but soon he was too busy stifling a hiss of pain as blood rushed back into his hands and feet, stinging unpleasantly. The guards gave him some time to recover, but watched him carefully with weapons ready. He massaged his wrists and looked at them questioningly. Something was going on, but he wasn't sure it's good for him.

One of the guards pointed at the fire, and so he stood up… staggered, but regained his balance… and headed there, limping. They spoke no word to him, nor did they look into his eyes. But their gestures and the naked blades in their hands were eloquent enough.

He sat down by the fire as he was ordered to, and he was given a full water skin. There he needed no encouragement – he drank deeply, as if it would be for the last time. Which he realized could be very well true. So far, however, his guards' intention seemed to be restoring as much of his strength as was possible. Knowing that he will probably need it all very soon, he did not protest, and even allowed them to look at the wound on his leg and clean it, although he would better like to do it himself.

He only hesitated when they put a pan on the fire. What was in the pan had too many appendages for a decent meal…

Locusts.

At least they have removed the legs and wings, he thought as the meal was presented to him. He gulped, and reminded himself that he hasn't eaten for two days, and he would really need his strength. With that thought, he picked one of the insects, and almost burned his fingers on it. Did one of the guards snicker? No, he probably just imagined that…

He forced himself to put the… meal… into his mouth. Chew, swallow. Not that bad after all, he thought, although it could be just his hunger speaking. He ate slowly, as if he could delay what would come next. Yet it seemed to him he was finished too soon.

Just a last mouthful of water, and then the guards seized his hands firmly, and forced him to his feet. They led him somewhere deeper into the desert, behind the dunes. The sun set behind the horizon, and the first stars were already in the sky. He could hear the slow rhythm of a drum beating in the distance, heavy like the pounding of his own heart. He took a deep breath and walked with his head proudly lifted.


	16. Dance of Blades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 16:  
> Challenge - Arnor: _A gentle breeze brushed the hilltop, combing the ruins..._  
>  Write a story or poem that starts with this line or create a piece of art that reflects this line.

A gentle breeze brushed the hilltop, combing the ruins. Nobody knew how old they were, who build them. The desert swallowed villages, even whole cities, while new grew again and again. The ones who built this city were long forgotten, only the remains of crumbling walls speaking about their presence.

_Thump… Thump… Thump…_

In those ruins, the drum was beating with a dark, steady rhythm and a circle of torches marked a broad space in the middle of the former square. The flames flickered in the darkness. Silhouettes of men could be seen right beyond the circle, silent like death. Their shadows danced on the walls – ghostly dancers in a forgotten city.

In the middle of the circle, the dark-eyed man waited, and the sabre in his hands seemed alive with the reflections of the flames. But his eyes looked cold and dead.

"The blood of my sister calls for the blood of her murderer," he spoke, and his voice was clear and sharp like the steel in his hands.

"Blood for blood," echoed the circle of men, and the sound of many drawn sabres was heard. The circle suddenly contained of blades. Thorongil was led inside it, and there his hands were released.

"Only one of us will leave the circle alive," the man continued in the same tone.

"Death for death," the circle replied.

_Thump…Thump… Thump. Thump. Thump, thump, thump…_

The rhythm of the drum quickened. Thorongil tensed, and cast a quick glance around, without letting his opponent out of his sight. There was a cold determination in the man's eyes when he raised his sabre. Thorongil had no weapon. It was clear whose death they expected.

_Thump, thump, thump, thump…_

The two men circled around each other. Slow steps. Eyes locked, captured in the short moment of balance before a fall.

_Thump. Thump…Thump…_

The time slowed. Like an attacking cobra, the sabre thrust forwards.

It missed – just a few inches.

In a quick turn, it attacked again.

Missed – a hairbreadth.

Again…

A moment of confusion. Blood and fire and bodies on the ground, wrestling.

The blade hit his arm, but Thorongil managed to tackle his opponent as he shifted his balance in the thrust. He could not hold him though – the man was strong and sinewy. Dust rose around them. Thorongil let go of him, and jumped away.

When he rose from a somersault, the sabre was in his hands.

The circle narrowed menacingly. Thorongil froze in the movement.

_Thump, thump, thumpthumpthump_

His opponent raised his hand, and the circle stopped too. Not leaving his eyes from Thorongil, he extended his hand… and in a moment he held a sabre from one of the men in the circle.

_Thump. Thump… Thump…_

They circled again, even opponents this time.

_Thump_ …

Metal hit metal. The clear song of swords. Sweat running down the temples. Two figures, two shadows moving in the circle of flames.

A dance with death.

A fight till last breath.

The feeling of life on the edge of a blade.

Like the flaming eyes of a lion in night were the stars that rose in the sky. Drops of blood in the dust. Drums. Heartbeat. Dance of blades.

And the night held her breath…

Thorongil stood, his opponent was on the ground. Quickly, before the man could rise, he put the blade to his throat.

The drum quietened. The sputtering of torches sounded loud in the silence.

Their eyes met, unwavering.

"I did not kill your sister…" Thorongil said quietly.


	17. Starry Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 17: Bree-lands  
> Challenge: Hobbits are well known for their gift-giving traditions. Write a story or poem in which the exchange of gifts is featured, or use "gifting" as a theme for a piece of art.

The gazes of the two men were still locked, the echo of words falling into the heavy silence. _I did not kill your sister…_

For a moment Thorongil had the feeling he saw a flicker of doubt in the black eyes, but there was no time for more explaining. The circle narrowed around them, glistening sabres pointing at him. Just the blade on the throat of their leader prevented those sabres from piercing his heart, and he was not sure how long even that can hold.

"Stand up!" he hissed, and pulled the man upward to emphasize the order. He knew that he wouldn't be able to force him if he refused – not with the injured arm. If Kadar decided for death instead of letting him escape, there was nothing he could do. And Kadar did not fear death – that much he could see in his eyes.

For some reason though, the man decided to cooperate, and cautiously stood up. Maybe it were really doubts about what he considered truth so far, but if they were caused by those words or by Kadar's defeat, which could be a sign of the spirits, Thorongil could not say.

"Make way or I will kill him!," he said threateningly, keeping the blade pressed to Kadar's throat.

The circle broke only hesitantly, but Thorongil did not wait, and walked with his hostage through the opening. "Do not follow!" he cried out when the men moved towards him, but it wouldn't work if Kadar wouldn't speak.

"Stay where you are," he said firmly, and as the men obeyed the order, Thorongil was beginning to wonder who is whose hostage here…

When they got out of sight in the maze of crumbling ruins, Thorongil stopped, and looked at the man. "I will remove the blade if you don't turn against me," he said.

Kadar laughed shortly. "The blade does not matter to me. You would be dead if I would want it."

"I thought so…" Thorongil muttered, and lowered the blade. They stood in the dark ruins, and looked at each other. A gust of wind from the desert whirled the dust at their feet, but they did not move.

"She was dead when I found her…" Thorongil said quietly, and the breeze took the words from his lips and carried them to the infinite stars. He paused to look at them, and then continued, struggling with the words. "I… I buried her at the edge of the desert."

Kadar gave him a long, piercing look, as if searching for the truth in his words. Thorongil did not avert his eyes. Finally Kadar shook his head in wonder. "You… buried her?"

"I could not leave her so…"

The silence stretched long. The stars shone in the sky just like in the night two days ago, the night that was her last. It was so easy to become lost in their mysterious depths…

"Someone wants your death, but for that last gift you gave her, I will give you time until the dawn. Go," Kadar said suddenly, his voice firm.

Thorongil bowed his head and turned to leave. But after a few steps, he turned to the other man. "What was her name?" he asked quietly.

"Rasha, Young gazelle..." Kadar said with a shade of sadness, and the words seemed to fill the desert with the scent of cinnamon and jasmine.

Thorongil nodded slowly, and before the echoes of the name died away, he disappeared in the darkness.


	18. The Sun is Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 18: Wilderland  
> Challenge: "There is no beautifier of complexion, or form, or behavior, like the wish to scatter joy and not pain around us. 'Tis good to give a stranger a meal, or a night's lodging. 'Tis better to be hospitable to his good meaning and thought, and give courage to a companion. We must be as courteous to a man as we are to a picture, which we are willing to give the advantage of a good light."  
> \- Ralph Waldo Emerson
> 
> The act of kindness or hospitability usually comes from a generous heart. Write a story or poem, or create a piece of art where your character displays this virtue.

The sky at the east was pale with the promise of dawn. With growing worry, Thorongil looked back. Just a few more moments before the hunt begins anew… There was no wind that would cover his tracks. Even the gentle breeze that has been blowing earlier quieted. Speed was his only chance – that's why he has taken the horse.

In the confusion that ensued when Kadar returned to his men alone, he managed to sneak to the horses, and before anyone could stop him, he galloped away. They did not follow him – Kadar was true to his word.

Soon however, the earth will thunder with the sound of many hoof beats. The dust will rise under the swift legs of horses. Then he will need every mile he can put between himself and his pursuers. He nudged the horse to greater speed. Faster! The sun will rise soon. The pale blue of the east heralded Arien's entry. Faster! Fas-

He slowed the horse and squinted. The desert was grey in the thinning darkness. There was a dark shape against the grey sand. Thorongil bit his lip, looking back – his pursuers will appear there soon – and ahead, at the dark shape. He could pass it without looking closer. It could be just a piece of rock or a dead animal… Yet something told him not to.

After a moment of hesitation, he turned the horse, and galloped there without losing any more time. He held his breath when the shape became clearer. It was no rock or carcass… It was a human.

Quickly Thorongil jumped down from the horse, and knelt at the man's side to search for a pulse. According to the clothes, it could very well be one of Kadar's men. There was no horse nearby – maybe he fell from it during the sandstorm…

There was a pulse! Thorongil bit his lip again, and looked to the east. The sun was just below the horizon. He could see its first rays touching the dunes…

He shook his head and stood up to fetch the water skin from the saddle. He weighted it in his hands - there was only half of it left... He sighed, and brought it to the man's lips. Just a few drops… then a little more… he forced himself to patience while the sun was climbing above the horizon.

Finally the man swallowed, and after a few more sips, opened his eyes. When his look focused on the face of the stranger above him, he weakly reached for his dagger. But the stranger caught his hand, and he had no strength to resist.

"Easy…" Thorongil said. "I will not hurt you. Drink…"

The man watched him for a moment, but then complied, too thirsty to do otherwise. Thorongil withdrew the water skin soon – not to save more for himself, but to prevent him from drinking too quickly. "Here, I will pour some water into your water skin. It should suffice until they find you. They will follow my tracks…"

He did as he said, and then hung it back on the saddle – now only less than one third of water remaining in it. He didn't like leaving the man alone in the desert, but he knew Kadar will be here soon. Too soon, maybe. There was no more he could do, and so he mounted the horse again.

He turned as he realized that the man is trying to call something at him despite his hoarse voice. He came closer.

"Thank you…" were the barely audible words. "My name is Nadhir…"

He bowed his head slightly. "I am Thorongil." Then he turned his horse, and galloped away under the rays of the rising sun.


	19. Meetings and Partings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 19: Rivendell  
> Challenge: "Every parting is a form of death, as every reunion is a type of heaven.” --Tryon Edwards.  
> Write a story or create a piece of artwork centred on meetings or reunions.

“Nadhir!”

A mixture of emotions was in Kadar’s face to those who knew how to look. To those who did not, his expression was maybe just a little less stoic than usual. Nadhir knew how to look… He saw the relief of a leader who didn’t have to lose a man again, but also a shade of guilt and worry… and surprise. He smiled weakly. “Good to see you again, _sidi_.”

Kadar jumped down from the horse, and all riders stopped. Nadhir noticed two of the men were sharing one horse. Now that he thought of it, Thorongil’s horse _did_ seem familiar to him…

“What are we waiting for?” someone asked sharply, a voice like the hissing of a snake.

Kadar clenched his fists. “I am the leader of these men. If you don’t like it, ride alone!” he replied angrily, and paid no more attention to Nazim. He turned to Nadhir instead. “It’s good to see you alive…”

That was the guilt, Nadhir thought. They did not look for him after the sandstorm. Instead, they followed the stranger – the one who saved his life. How strange the paths of fate were… He smiled weakly.

“What about Faris?” Kadir asked. “Have you seen him in the storm?”

So Faris was missing also… Nadhir shook his head, understanding now the worry. “My horse stumbled and I fell. Then I haven’t seen anyone until…” he paused, and looked at Kadar. “…until the stranger found me.”

Kadar nodded slowly, looking at the track they have been following.

Nazim followed his look from under half-closed eyelids. “You know what you got paid for…” he muttered threateningly.

“Yes, I do…” Kadar replied darkly. “You,” he pointed at three of the men, “will ride with me. We miss two horses already, so the rest will share theirs and ride more slowly. Make sure Nadhir recovers, and…” he paused, “… maybe you will also find Faris.”

“What? Only four men?! “ Nazim was not content with the solution. “You already let him slip away once!”

Kadar ignored him and mounted his horse together with the three men he chose. Nazim followed them despite not being selected, but Kadar acted as if he wouldn’t see him.

“Kadar!”

He turned when Nadhir called at him.

Nadhir looked at him for some time, and then he spoke slowly: “His name is Thorongil…”


	20. Old Man’s Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 20: Misty Mountains  
> Challenge: Write a story or poem or create an artwork in which a character unaccustomed to acting as a leader must make an important decision

Nadhir watched Kadar and his group of men depart. He sighed. He was older than most of them. He followed Kadar’s father when Kadar himself was just a boy and Rasha an innocent little girl. How the times change… Boys grew up and became men. Men grew old and weary… For many times he thought he should settle down, but somebody had to keep an eye on Kadar, didn’t he? But when the old survive and the young die, it is hard to keep the will to go on. Rasha was dead, and Kadar rode after her murderer. But somehow, Nadhir couldn’t believe Thorongil murdered their young gazelle…

Something captured his attention as Nazim mounted his horse and rode away with Kadar, uninvited. Something glistening fell from his pocket – or was it just a play of sun rays? But Kadar already turned away, and the men departed. The horses ran swiftly, sparkling eyes and flowing manes. Smaller and smaller they will grow before the desert swallows them and hides them from his sight. 

“Help me up,” Nadhir asked the man closest to him.

“You should rest before we ride,” the man shook his head.

Nadhir scowled. “When I say you should help me up, I’m not asking for your opinion,” he retorted sourly.

The man sighed, and after a moment of hesitation he did as he was told, to which Nadhir nodded grumpily. He wished he wouldn’t be so weak, but on the other side, he thought he should be thankful for being alive at all. 

“There!” he pointed at the place where he saw the glistening thing fall. The man already knew better than to argue, and so he helped Nadhir to get there.

“Here… It must be somewhere here…” Nadhir muttered as he knelt and combed the sand with his fingers.

The men looked at each other. “Nadhir, you have sunstroke. Let us find some shade…”

“No… no, it’s here…” Nadhir didn’t cease his work. “Here!” He looked up, and something shiny was in his palm.

“That’s Rasha’s earring…” someone breathed out.

Nadhir nodded gravely. “I saw it fall out of Nazim’s pocket.” He looked in the direction where the horses and riders were visible just like little dots in the desert. “Kadar should know…”

“They are too far already,” the man who helped him before shook his head.

Nadhir bit his lip, and looked at the remaining men. It could be dangerous task… He didn’t like the feeling he has to decide who of them will face the danger. Always it was someone else who decided – Kadar’s father, Kadar, and he followed the lead. But now… He turned to the youngest of the men.

“Sahir, you are the swiftest rider. Take the best horse and ride after Kadar. Show him the earring… but be careful with Nazim.”

Sahir nodded and took the jewel. “I will.”

In the next moment a cloud of dust already veiled him and his horse as he galloped away.

Nadhir looked after him with heavy heart. “Good luck, my son…” he whispered to the figure of the rider disappearing in the distance.


	21. East and West

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 21: Mirkwood  
> Challenge: We were young, we were merry, we were very, very wise, And the door stood open at our feast, When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes, And a man with his back to the East. -Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
> 
> The words West and East are often used in the works of Tolkien. Write a story or poem or create an artwork that uses these words as the central focus, whether as cardinals, regions, or as metaphors.

The sun was in her zenith, in the short moment when she didn’t climb the blue heights of the sky, but did not yet begin sinking into the fiery embrace of the west. The air near to the ground glimmered with heat and reflected the sun’s rays like pools of water amidst the infinite sea of sand – always somewhere in the distance, never close.

The sand rose under the hooves of a horse. The earth thundered for a while, and then quieted, the hoof beats fading in the east. Then it thundered again, the sound of many hooves coming from the west, and the cries of men encouraging their horses to greater speed. And when even they faded and the dust settled, peace returned to the realm of the merciless sun. Nothing moved beneath her hot rays, pounding at the earth like the blows of a smith’s hammer, shaping the land and its people. Until… the dust rose again, and another lonely rider dared to trespass the sun’s kingdom. Then the silence returned, and nothing disturbed it anymore.

* * *

Thorongil leaned lower at the neck of his horse. It was a black horse, slender and swift like the desert wind. The horses of this land were smaller than those of the north, but tireless in the desert, able to run long miles and found nourishment in the dry grass that grew in some places.

_“Noro lim…”_ Thorongil whispered, but he knew the horse cannot understand the language spoken so far away… so long away… those times when he spoke that language seemed like another life to him. Despite that the horse ran quicker, the black mane flowing like a proud flag. A black flag… with seven stars…

He shook his head. Somehow his thoughts always strayed to what he couldn’t have now… He looked back and frowned. He could see the cloud of dust rising where his pursuers rode. He knew Kadar would be in their head, his black eyes glistening with determination. He turned his attention to the road ahead.

There, just a few hours’ ride to the east, should be a town. People, houses, wells with fresh water, maybe even a few palms, and the smell of spices and music in the evening. There he can hide and finally find out who and why paid for his death. From the west his pursuers rode, the menace of cold steel and sharp sabres.

And yet it seemed to him that a dark menace hovers in the east, while the west was bright and clear. But from here, Mordor was more to the north than east… Maybe it was just a prejudice, imprinted into his mind by stories in the young age, and experience later. Yet he felt uneasy when leading his horse in that direction. Could it be a foresight? He thought about that question for a moment, but then forgot it as he looked back and saw the cloud of dust nearing.

“ _Noro lim_!”


	22. Dangerous Names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 22: Erebor  
> Challenge: Refugee issues are our issues; their plight is our plight. Write a story or poem or create artwork that illustrates the situation of some displaced group in Middle-earth.

The town was already in sight. So were his pursuers. The last miles flew under the hooves of the black horse. Thorongil did not remember how he got at the main street of the town. He did not pay much attention to the stalls lining the street, to the people regarding him strangely.

There was a well. During his flight, he did not acknowledge the needs of his body. There was just the town ahead and the men behind. Now there was also thirst, and pain and weariness. But the men behind were there still. He did not stop at the well.

There was a tavern, and a trough for horses at the entrance. A rider was too noticeable in the city. He dismounted there, and patted the horse regretfully. It was a good animal, and probably saved his life… for now, he thought wryly. Hastily he took a mouthful of water from the trough, and hurried into the side streets. Maybe there he can lose the pursuers. He hoped somebody would take care of the horse – maybe even its original owner. So many maybes, and an unfamiliar city around him… He could already hear the hoses and men in the main street. The men were shouting something. He didn't stay to find out what, and retreated deeper into the alley.

The night fell.

Thorongil was hiding in a small alcove under the stairs of a house. It wasn't a comfortable place, and stank of rotting garbage, but he didn't dare to leave it yet – too often he heard quick and heavy steps passing nearby, as if looking for something or someone. Once he even heard voices just around the corner, asking about a pale stranger.

When he found this place, he drank the last drops of water from his water skin. Now he was entertaining himself with trying to figure out how to get to the well. But it was in the main street, and Kadar certainly left some men there to wait for him if he makes that mistake. Thinking about it made the thirst even worse… Soon he will have to try his luck in some house, hoping that residents will not send word to Kadar. Not yet, though. The steps were too frequent – as if half of the city was looking for him.

Steps again, two pairs of boots. The stopped not far from him. He held his breath.

"Does he know who paid him?" one of the men asked.

"I don't think so. Nazim let us know he is here. If the Captain knew Thorongil will come here, he would not hire an assassin."

"How convenient…" the first man smirked.

"Indeed. We have been planning the revenge since we had to flee Umbar, and now he comes right into our city."

In his hiding place, Thorongil bit his lip. Umbar Corsairs! Maybe it was not wise to use the name Thorongil here…


	23. Two Faces of One Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 23: Dol Guldur  
> Challenge: Everyone avoided the tower. It was believed to have ...  
> Write a story or poem that starts with this line or create a piece of art that reflects this line.

Everyone avoided the tower. It was believed to have something sinister about it. Not a sinister past, as it usually goes with such towers. It was a quite a mundane past, but a sinister present. The tower was a simple building from burnt bricks, used as a town hall until a few months ago. There were a few arched windows and a symbol of golden sun on the rooftop – not even golden, just gilded. There was nothing scary about it then. But now…

The tower remained, unchanged on the outside. But the city knew. The city was like a living being, it felt the tower like a thorn in its side and retreated from it like an animal from a burning stick. The streets were quiet around the tower. No merchant dared to set a stall here, no beggar dared to approach those who walked here. It was just a few months ago that the tower became a menace, but to the city it felt as if it would be so from the very beginning. Cities have a short memory…

It was just a few months since the Corsairs took the tower. They came from the north, fleeing from something. But now – the people of the city fled when their Captain walked the streets, flanked by his guards. They have lost their ships and haven, and so they took the city, behaving to it like to a ship that they own.

Sahir did not know that. He came looking for Kadar not long ago, but the city seemed to swallow the men of the desert, as well as the stranger. When he asked the people in the streets, he could only find out that they have been here, but where they are now, nobody knew. In the tavern he learned that they left about an hour ago, leaving the horses in the stable – four men and five horses, and Nazim was not with them. Sahir frowned. He could wait for Kadar in the tavern, but he felt he should find him as soon as possible. It could be too late already…

And so he went looking for them into the city, heading to the one orientation point he could see from afar.

When he arrived at the tower, the silence stopped him for a moment. Then the sound of a nocked crossbow.

“Do you have business with the Captain?” a voice sounded from the window above him.

He took a step back. “What captain?”

“Then you don’t...”  
  
“I’m looking for someone, but it’s not your captain.”

“If you are looking for someone to give all your money, then you are on the right place.” The laughter that issued sounded like at least five men looking through the windows.

Sahir reached for his sabre, but before he could draw it, the voice sounded again. “I wouldn’t do that on your place. There are a few crossbows aiming at you right now. One wrong movement, and…”

Sahir froze, thinking it unwise to pick a fight when he had a much more important task. “I have no money,” he said.

“Oh, really?” the voice sounded mockingly. Then the voice got a face as the door opened. The man was short and fat, and obviously not doing this for the first time – he paid good attention to not stand between Sahir in the crossbowmen in the windows.

“What do you have in that purse?” he asked with an unpleasant smile.

Sahir took a step back. “Nothing valuable.”

“What a pity…”

The man’s smirk was getting quite annoying, Sahir thought, and despite the crossbows he was tempted to draw the sabre. How quickly could he pierce the man’s heart?

…the man was certainly quicker. Sahir didn’t know how the purse came into his hands.

“Ah, what a nice earring!” he exclaimed as he surveyed its contains.

Sahir clenched his fists. It was Rasha’s earring…

“And he says he has no money…” Again that annoying smile. “Where is the second earring?!”

“I don’t have it. And I need the first one too, it is not mine.”

“Not yours!” the man laughed as if Sahir would just tell a good joke. “I bet it is not yours! You have stolen it from some wealthy woman, didn’t you?” He turned back. “Search him!”

The order was carried out immediately. Three men stepped out of the shade behind the door. Sahir struggled, but a hilt of a dagger hit his temple, and he knew no more.


	24. Vulture and Eagle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 24: Rhosgobel  
> Challenge: Write a story or poem or create artwork using one or more animals as symbols, omens, or metaphors. Use associations and meanings from any culture or source you wish (e.g., Celtic, Native American, Biblical).

A jackal howled. A window shot closed.

Not Death, Fear walked the streets tonight.

The stalls were open, but there was no music in the streets, no groups of chatting women or men smoking a water pipe and playing chess. People just got out to get what they need, and hurried back home.

In the corner of the tavern, a lonely man was drinking tea. His face was hidden in the shade of a turban that the nomads used to wear.

The jackal howled again, and the tavern keeper looked up nervously. “A bad omen…” he muttered. “Someone will die today.” 

In the next moment the door opened, and a man in black cloak entered, flanked by two guards. He was not afraid like the rest of the city. He was the Fear… He reminded a vulture in his posture, and also by something in his eyes, something greedy and malicious.

The shock in the tavern keeper’s face was immediately covered with obligingness. “Lord Dûrnaur! It is an honour that you came to visit my humble tavern! Can I offer you my services? Some tea? Or something to eat?”

The corsair lord paid no attention to the nervous man and surveyed the tavern slowly. His look stopped on the man in the corner. His eyes narrowed. “You! I have seen you before! But you are not from this city…”

The man raised his head, and a pair of eyes glistened in the shade of the turban. They eyes were grey, and their sharp and bold look reminded an eagle as he looked the corsair captain right into the eyes. “Yes, I believe we met before…” he said with a northern accent.

A sharp intake of breath. The guards immediately reached for weapons, but the Captain stopped them with a gesture.

He made a step closer to the man, who didn’t move. “Thorongil… What an irony, sitting so peacefully in a tavern when all my men are looking for you.”

“I thought so…” Thorongil nodded. It was not visible in the shadow, but a slight smile sounded in his voice. “Tell them to not divide when looking for me next time. I borrowed the clothes from one of them. Maybe he would appreciate if you sent someone for him. That alcove is not very comfortable, but sitting there naked and bound must be even worse…”

The Captain leaned forwards, his look full of hatred. “You destroyed Umbar.”

“Freed, you mean.”

Dûrnaur growled. “You killed my brother there!”

“And you took his place of the Captain, I see…” Thorongil took a gulp from the tea, and put the glass back on the table. Then he stood up, and put down the turban, revealing his face. “Strange how everyone is accusing me from a murder of their sibling… I killed your brother in a duel, Dûrnaur. If you want to revenge him, why don’t you keep it between us like your brother did?”

Dûrnaur laughed sharply. “You think I will give you a chance after what you did? I will not give you the pleasure of dying quickly!” He gestured to his guards: “Get him!”

They dashed at him immediately, but Thorongil jumped over the table and avoided his attackers with ease. A sabre appeared in his hands, the one he took from Kadar, and before the guards could react, one of them fell dead on the floor of the tavern.

The other was more careful as he approached. They circled among the tables, exchanged a few blows and then retreated again, watching each other. The captain also retreated to the wall, watching. His sabre was ready in his hands, but he didn’t look as if he would want to join the fight yet.

Suddenly Thorongil jumped on the table, and descended on the guard like an eagle on its prey. The man staggered, clutching a wound on his chest, and then fell on the floor.

The jackal howled again.

Thorongil’s and Dûrnaur’s eyes met.


	25. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 25: Lothlórien  
> Challenge: She knelt on the floor, carefully picking up the shards of glass. Why did it have to be this one that broke?  
> Start a story with this two lines and answer the question of what was once broken. Or create a poem or piece of art that pictures this scene.

She knelt on the floor, carefully picking up the shards of glass. Why did it have to be this one that broke? It was one of the best plates they had… The tavern keeper’s wife sighed, and continued picking the shards. There have been a fight earlier in the evening, and now there was blood on the floor, overthrown tables and broken dishes. Nobody cared for that - not even for her best plates.

First the black-eyed nomad arrived with his men, asking if they have seen a stranger from the North in the city. They left their horses in the stable, which meant they are planning to return. Luckily they didn’t yet – they looked like trouble, and even more trouble than now they certainly didn’t need. It seemed not only them, but also all the Corsairs were looking for the stranger. A few of them came to ask for him – why did everybody think that all strangers have to stop in the tavern? Then this young nomad came asking for the other nomads…

She shook her head. Who could have told that the stranger that all were looking for was the man sitting peacefully in their tavern for a few hours? Now that she thought about it, he seemed to be waiting for the Corsair Captain… He knew everyone came to the tavern to ask for him. Sooner or later, lord Dûrnaur would come. It seemed they knew each other. And the stranger was waiting. When lord Dûrnaur finally appeared, he killed his guards like nothing, and then…

She shivered when she thought about the duel that followed. She has never seen such a quick fight before, or such tension like between these two men. The hatred in Dûrnaur’s eyes was almost like a physical force, driving him forwards, giving strength to his blows. The blades sparkled, the fighters moved in a blur. It was hard to follow which one is attacking and which one retreating; they seemed to do both in the same time. She has been watching it from the kitchen, unable to tear her eyes away for the fascination of the scene before her. Now just the broken plates remained, but it seemed to her as if the shadows of the combatants would still move between the tables, thrusting, blocking, avoiding the blows.

She picked up one shard, and looked at it closer. There was a drop of blood on it… She wondered shortly whose blood it was. They have been both injured in the fight, and it seemed the stranger had also some older wounds, which began bleeding again. She remembered thinking that he could use a good meal when she watched him. That was when she noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes. It was strange how he managed to hide his weariness before, looking like a mighty eagle descending on its prey. But he could not hide it any longer, and Dûrnaur pressed him even harder, seeing his advantage. She was not disappointed, because she didn’t allow herself to believe that the rule of the Corsairs over the city might end here. It was too much to hope for, and the shattering of such a hope would shatter one’s heart. It was better not to believe…

Still she couldn’t look at the end of the fight. There was nothing fascinating in it anymore. She averted her face from it, waiting for the nightmare to be over.

A cry of pain. The dull sound of a falling body. Breaking plates. Then silence.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked through the curtain of the door. She couldn’t believe her eyes. The Corsair Captain was lying on the floor, in a growing stain of blood. The stranger stood over him, but she saw he was standing just barely. He leaned on the wall for support, panting heavily.

For a moment, she rejoiced. Dûrnaur was dead! The Corsair rule was over!

How foolish she was, she thought. At the end, she allowed herself to hope, and the hope shattered with her heart. She sighed, and continued picking the shards.

Their Captain was dead, but it was foolish to think that the Corsairs would just leave. In the next moments they swarmed the tavern. Maybe somebody called them – it didn’t matter anymore. The stranger had no chance against them. He resisted, but exhausted and injured as he was, they overwhelmed him quickly. They took him alive, and she didn’t want to imagine the fate that awaited him in their hands. Instead, she concentrated on the shards of her favourite plate.

Such a pity…


	26. The Captain Is Dead, Long Live the Captain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 26: Isengard  
> Challenge: “Pride is still aiming at the best houses: Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell; aspiring to be angels men rebel."  
> \--Alexander Pope
> 
> How would a character not allowed to express his or her thoughts, creativity, or opinion act out? Capture this in a story, poem or piece of art.

The Captain was dead. Those words spread like fire among the Corsairs in the city. Thorongil has been captured. The Captain was dead. For some, one of the news was bad. For others, both were reasons to rejoice.

Nazim watched from the tower as they led – more dragged – Thorongil in. “Good job!” he walked to meet them, a malicious smile on his face. “We didn’t even need the assassin after all! I’ve told that to the Master, but he didn’t listen…”

“Captain, not Master…” a voice behind him growled. It belonged to the fat man who robbed Sahir.

Nazim smirked. “I see no ships here… You can play at sailors, but there is even no sea here. Just the desert.”

The face of the fat man grew almost red with anger. “You landlubber know nothing about ships! The Captain just kept you because you know the people here! If he would be alive, you wouldn’t even be allowed to speak! Actually, you are not, so mind your place if you want to keep your life!”

Nazim shook his head sadly. “Threats, threats… I have heard many of those… But the Master is not alive.” He put accent on the word ‘Master’.

The circle of men tensed. That was an offence, and it shouldn’t go unanswered. The fat man narrowed his eyes, and drew the sabre. “I warned you…” he said quietly, almost calmly in comparison to his previous fury.

Nazim just sighed, and made a reconciliatory gesture. “I’m sorry, I forgot my place for a moment…”

The fat man frowned, but returned the sabre to its scabbard. “Make sure to not forget anymore,” he growled, and turned to the prisoner.

“I will not…” Nazim muttered, and before anyone could react, he jumped to the fat man from behind, and slit his throat with a dagger.

The gurgling of blood and gasps for air were the only sounds in the astonished silence. Soon they quieted too.

“Does anyone else want to question my place?” Nazim asked with a dangerous look in his eyes, the blood glistening on his dagger.

The men were quiet.

He smirked. “Good. Not that we have solved this, get the prisoner into the cell. I have something special prepared for him in the morning.”


	27. Trial by Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 27: Rohan  
> Challenge: A horse is the projection of peoples' dreams about themselves - strong, powerful, beautiful - and it has the capability of giving us escape from our mundane existence. --Pam Brown
> 
> Write a story or poem, or create a piece of art where your character rises above themselves to follow their dreams.

The sun was rising. Thorongil closed his eyes, desperately wishing he could be somewhere else. He could not, however. For days, he has been on the run. Now he finally turned to face his enemies, and found out they were too many. He defeated Dûrnaur, but then his strength finally gave up, and he could not resist when they have taken him… beaten him… The night was a blur of voices and faces and pain. He thought there was one friendly face among them, but that was probably just his imagination. There couldn’t be a friendly face in this place.

Now he hung by his wrists, bound to a high stake in the middle of the square before the tower. The sun was rising, and the Corsairs were carrying something… he tried to focus his vision. They were building three heaps of wood and dry leaves around the stake, some distance apart from it. He recognized the man with snake voice that he saw with Kadar. He was ordering them now, behaving like their leader. He wondered shortly where Kadar is, but then his attention was drawn to the man again. He had a torch in his hands. He knew that should worry him, but his thoughts were slow and muddled.

The sun rose. It was quiet, just the sputtering of the torch interrupted the silence.

With effort Thorongil raised his head and looked straight into Nazim’s eyes. His look was proud, unwavering. Nazim averted his eyes after a while, and quickly sank the torch into one heap of wood. “For the ships you burned,” he said with hatred in his voice.

The flames began licking the wood. “For Umbar that should belong to the Corsairs,” Nazim approached the second heap of wood and lit it up.

Finally, he stopped above the third heap, and lowered the torch. “For the glory of the Eye,” he said, and stepped back, watching with a smirk on his face as the flames began devouring the wood. Like hungry snakes they winded around it, gathering strength, shooting up like attacking cobras. The heaps of wood were positioned carefully – too far to burn directly. No, that would be too quick. The heat and smoke, and the merciless rays of the sun that will ascend soon would be enough…

Thorongil still watched him intently, but soon he had to close his eyes before the stinging smoke. Nazim smiled triumphantly.

-oOo-

The sun was a blazing disc on the sky. So close, somewhere behind the dancing flames… He could see it even with closed eyes. Its rays burned his naked skin. Or were it the flames? They were one, one inseparable torment. The heat was getting unbearable. He could feel a trickle of sweat running down his temples, and the unpleasant feeling of dried blood. The stinging smoke made his eyes tear. He wished he could keep that all – the sweat, the blood, the tears. Water. Water in any form. He was desperately thirsty, his throat so dry that it hurt. The smoke made him cough, and that hurt even more. 

Again he wished he could be somewhere else, but knew how futile such wishes are. There was just the sun and the fire, the pain and thirst. The faces behind the flames were blurry, unreal. The blood pounded in his temples with a dark, heavy rhythm. The flames seemed closer and closer. The sun covered the entire sky. It was hard to breathe. The pain in his wounds was growing with every breath. His body arched in a convulsion. For a moment his vision darkened, but still he could see the sun, like imprinted in his eyes. A moan escaped his cracked lips. How long yet? Oh Valar, how long will he have to suffer so?

Every moment lasted ages. He struggled for breath, but the air in his lungs was hot and filled with smoke. The Corsairs, the nomads – they were all in a different world. His world was filled with pain and fire.

He closed his eyes, and tried to remember something else. There had to be something else in the world, not just the flames and the merciless face of the sun. There had to be…

_Arwen_ … A thought rose in his mind like a frail butterfly among the flames. There was a scent of fresh leaves in the air, and the gentle wind swayed the birch branches… Beyond the sun, beyond the flames, he could see the kind face of an elven maiden; he could hear the sound of waterfalls in Rivendell, feel the cool shower on his face. He knew it was not real, it was a dream, but he was thankful for it. He would have wept, but he had no tears left. From a great distance, he could hear sounds – cries and clang of steel. They meant nothing to him anymore.

He rose above the fire and pain to embrace his dream.


	28. The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 28: Gondor
> 
> Challenge: There was no avoiding it; the letter had to be composed...
> 
> Who will receive this letter? An uncle? A lover? The High-King? Why is there "no avoiding it"? Circumstances? Or is Mother watching with arms crossed? Will the letter be written in haste? Or will each phrase be meticulously crafted?
> 
> Write a story or poem inspired by this line (you do not need to use the exact quote), or create a piece of art that reflects this situation.

_Most honoured Mother and Elders_

_May the spirits of the desert ever watch over your steps._

He bit his lip. How should he write that Rasha was dead? No, he will write that later...

_I write you this letter because the money I had to bring..._

Kadar shook his head, and put down the quill. He took another piece of paper.

_Most honoured Mother and Elders_

_May the spirits of the desert ever watch over your steps. I must inform you that I will return later than expected. I didn’t manage to get the money needed to spare the children of our tribe service in the Khan’s army. I could not accept them, because…_

Kadar stopped writing for a moment, the events of the day replaying in his mind’s sight.

They were just about to return to the tavern after an unsuccessful search. Not that they’ve tried very hard – it seemed Nazim’s master lived in this city, and his men were looking for the stranger too. Kadar was just glad Nazim left… And then young Sahir approached them. It was a surprise to Kadar – he thought Sahir stayed with his father Nadhir. But even a bigger surprise was the story Sahir told them. Even now Kadar’s fists clenched when he thought about it.

Nazim, that cowardly dog! It was him who killed Rasha! Sahir said he had her earring that Nazim had lost, but the robbers in the tower have taken it from him. Even without it, Kadar didn’t doubt his word for a moment. Sahir would never lie. None of his men would. The robbers knocked him out, and he awoke in a cell. He said he understood from their talk that they wanted to sell him into slavery. Kadar was glad he managed to escape – that was after they put the stranger into the same cell, and forgot to lock the door after they led him away in the morning. And Nazim was the one who led them…

Kadar did not hesitate. The murder of Rasha called for vengeance, and that the murderer rode with them and shared their food was the greatest offence. He had only four men with Sahir, but anger drove them forwards. It almost led them to their fate…

Kadar watched the blank page before him, thinking. He has lost another man in the battle. Why was it always so hard to put such things on paper? 

The Corsairs have indeed captured the stranger. They prepared a slow, torturous death for him. So intent they were on watching it, that the attack surprised them. But they were too many. Soon Kadar and his men were forced to defend themselves instead of attacking. That’s when Maimun has been killed. His name meant ‘Lucky’, but it didn’t bring him luck today… All of them would be killed – or even worse, sold into slavery – if help wouldn’t arrive in that moment.

They came in the highest time – Nadhir with the rest of his men! Old Nadhir proved he has recovered quickly. He killed three Corsairs in the fight.

At the end, there was only one of them left. Nazim. Purposefully Kadar’s men were leaving him alive, knowing that Kadar wants to kill him himself. When they circled him, he looked like a dog driven into a corner.

"The blood of my sister calls for the blood of her murderer," Kadar said, and the circle echoed darkly: “Blood for blood.”

"Only one of us will leave the circle alive."

"Death for death."

“No! It was not me! I didn’t kill her, I swear!”

“Liar!”

It was clear in his eyes. Even before the spirits he dared to lie… Kadar closed his eyes, reliving the moment when his blade pierced the heart of the liar. He felt more disgust than satisfaction. Everything was quiet for a moment. Then, like waking from a dream, Kadar turned away from the corpse of the murderer, to the sad picture of the man who proved his innocence in the circle of blades. His blows were strong and his movements quick that night. His eyes shone with inner fire. Now he looked so frail and broken… Without more fuel, the fires around him were already dying, but it was too late for him, it seemed.

“Bury him,” Kadar said quietly. “He has done the same for my sister.”

It was Nadhir who cut the bonds, and gently lowered the man to the ground. “ _Sidi!”_ his voice sounded after a few moments. “He is still alive!”

Kadar looked up with surprise, and hurried to Nadhir. Indeed, there was a weak pulse… “Does he have a chance?” he asked.

Nadhir shook his head. “Only the spirits can tell…”

Kadar closed his eyes, like praying to the spirits. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his dagger.

“Do you want to end his suffering?” Nadhir asked quietly.

Kadar stood up abruptly, and drew the dagger. Then he cut the purse from his belt, and threw it at the ground near Nazim’s corpse. “Take your money back,” he said. “I will not do what you paid me for!”

Then he knelt at Thorongil’s side again. “Bring water! Quickly!”

* * *

Now they were back in the tavern. The tavern keeper’s wife was very helpful, and even paid a healer. He did what he could, but still he could not tell if the man will live. It will be a long night, Kadar thought when watching him from a chair near the bed. The only thing he could do was waiting, and so he decided to write the letter. But the words did not come. He sighed and put the quill down. Maybe later…


	29. Darkest Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 29: Mordor  
> Challenge: "Darkness is only driven out with light, not more darkness."  
> \--Martin Luther King, Jr.
> 
> Write a story or poem or create artwork where your character battles and overcomes their darkest hour.

“Thorongil! Thorongil!” for the first time Kadar called the man by his name that he learned from Nadhir. The syllables felt strange to his tongue, and he wondered shortly what the name means in the language of the North. Could it be something about hope or valour? He will need both to survive this night…

“Thorongil! Do you hear me?”

Kadar sighed. He did not, it seemed. It was some delirious dream that made him toss and moan, without realizing his surroundings. Did he make a mistake? Should he give him the blow of mercy when he could, without prolonging the suffering? Now it was too late. Kadar already decided he will live, and so it will be. So it had to be. “You will live, do you understand?” he whispered. “I will not allow Rasha’s murderer to claim another life…”

Thorongil’s eyes opened suddenly, but he didn’t see Kadar. He cried out something in a language Kadar didn’t understand, and his body arched in pain that made his nightmares real.

“Easy… You are safe here…” Kadar murmured soothingly, realizing that in his state, the man will perceive more the tone than the words. He put his hand on the Thorongil’s brow, and bit his lip. The man was burning with fever.

“Easy, Thorongil. It’s over. There’s no fire anymore….” Kadar talked soothingly, but in the same time he knew that the fire still burns and torments him – from inside. He soaked a cloth in cool water, and gently washed the man’s face. “You must drink…” he muttered, and let a few drops fall into his mouth. But Thorongil averted his face, maybe thinking that Kadar belongs to his tormentors in the fevered dreams.

Kadar sighed in frustration. “I’m not your enemy…” he said, but knew in the same time that Thorongil has every reason to think that. But he was not, and neither was Nazim in this moment, although he was to blame for this. The fever was Thorongil’s enemy now, the enemy that he had to fight – or die. His breathing was getting laborious.

Kadar shook his head. The cloth was not cool anymore. This will not do… He took the sheet from the bed, and soaked it in the water. With pity he regarded the body covered in burns and bruises. The healer bandaged the deeper wounds earlier, but some of the bandages were already soaked with blood. The one on his arm was from his own blade, Kadar thought.

“Don’t be afraid. It will sting now…” he whispered, as he covered Thorongil with the soaked sheets. When the wet cloth touched the burns and bruises, the man tossed his head and moaned in pain. For a short moment, his eyes opened again.

“Thorongil! Do you hear me?” Kadar tried again, and this time, Thorongil’s eyes tried to focus on his face. “Do not fear, you are safe here. But you need to drink. Here…” He reached for a cup and brought it to Thorongil’s lips, supporting his head while he did so. “Slowly...”

Thorongil managed to drink a few sips before his eyes closed again, and he drifted back into the fevered dreams.

For hours Kadar watched over him, and soaked the sheets in cool water when they got warm. Just before dawn, the fever finally began to sink.

The sun rose over the city in its bright glory, the long shadows pointing to the west. The shadow of the tower was long, but only that remained from the rule of the Corsairs over the city – a shadow. Kadar watched it from the window, when he heard a weak moan. Quickly he turned, and saw that Thorongil’s eyes are open, looking at him. The man blinked, but the light from the window was too bright to see more than a silhouette. Kadar stepped closer.

Thorongil blinked again. “I… I know you…” he whispered, his voice still hoarse.

“I think so,” Kadar smiled slightly. “Do not speak yet, your throat must hurt terribly. Here…” He took the cup, and brought it to Thorongil’s lips again. With slow sips Thorongil drained the whole cup, and first then he looked at Kadar. “Why?” he asked weakly. 

Kadar shrugged. “I’m not your enemy. It was Nazim who wanted your death, and now he is dead himself. It was him who killed Rasha. I couldn’t allow him to kill you too.”

That was too much information at once. Thorongil was quiet for a moment, trying to gather the muddled memories. “Thank you…” he whispered finally, and then his eyes closed again. But instead of the fevered dreams, he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Kadar watched him for a while, and then smiled slightly. “And maybe also because I’m beginning to like you for some reason…” he muttered to himself, and sat down in the chair to watch over Thorongil’s sleep.


	30. The Last Haradrim Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 30: Grey Havens  
> Challenge: "You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right."  
> \--Maya Angelou
> 
> Write a story or poem, or create a piece of art on the theme of leaving or returning home.

It was a pleasant, fragrant night. They watched the desert together as the sun set and the stars appeared in the sky, thousands of twinkling lights. The stars seemed so close that one needed only to extend his hand to reach them. The fire burned low, the warm light dancing on the faces of two men. The silence was comfortable. Speaking will break it… Just for a few more moments they wanted to be quiet and delay the inevitable.

But nothing could last forever. Finally, Kadar spoke. “I have enough money now to spare our boys from the service in the Khan’s army.”

Thorongil nodded, knowing what it means. “I’m glad for you. The people in the city were very generous.”

“They should be thankful to you. You killed the Corsair Captain.”

Thorongil chuckled. “And you did the rest.”

Kadar nodded with a smile, but then he grew serious again. He sighed. “Will you not change your mind?”

Thorongil shook his head, and looked at the stars. “I wish I could go with you. See the tents of your tribe, the children and the herds of horses…”

“Then why not?” Kadar asked, despite already knowing the answer.

“My heart calls me home. Your land is beautiful, but I do not belong here. I feel it stronger every day…”

Kadar smiled sadly. “Maybe once you will show me the woods and green meadows you told me about.”

“Maybe…” Thorongil nodded, but his voice shook slightly. They both knew it will not happen. Kadar belonged to his land, into the cruel, merciless, beautiful desert. Thorongil coughed, and smiled to lighten the mood. “You would be cold there.”

Kadar smiled too, but his face was serious as he answered. “You endured the heat here…”

Thorongil looked away. “For that I also have to thank you.”

“You did already. You know what my father told me? Do not thank twice for something that happened just once, if you don’t want it to happen again.”

“I will remember that,” Thorongil smiled. “It’s something I wouldn’t like to repeat.”

Concern was in Kadar’s voice. “Are you sure you are well enough for such a long journey?” 

“Do not worry. I’m all right already. Now it’s just the distance from home that makes my heart ache.”

“Still I will not allow you to walk such a distance. Take the horse you…” the corners of Kadar’s mouth lifted, “…borrowed. It is a gift.”

Thorongil was taken aback for a moment, knowing the price of such a horse in these lands. But it was an offence to decline a gift.

“Thank you, Kadar.” He bowed his head. “May the spirits of the desert watch over your steps.”

“And over yours, Thorongil.”

For the rest of the night, they remained quiet while the fire burned and the stars travelled the sky. It was an unusual friendship they found under those stars – who could have told that when they first met as enemies, a hunter and prey? But now it seemed to both of them that it lasted too short. They talked together while Thorongil was recovering from his wounds. Kadar, usually not speaking more than necessary, found himself telling the stranger from the North about the life of their tribe, about the men who rode with him, and the Khan trying to subdue them. In return, Thorongil told him about the northern countries, the Elves and Hobbits, and winters with snow, even about the Rangers and their steady watch over the Northern lands.

They enjoyed each other’s company while it lasted, but both knew it will last short. Kadar had to return to his tribe, and Thorongil’s heart ached for the North. Finally the day of the leave-taking came. The last night they spent together, sitting at a small fire. They did not talk anymore, just watched the stars in companionable silence.

In the morning Kadar turned to the south, and Thorongil to the north.


	31. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 31: Valinor  
> Challenge: "Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain."  
> -Friedrich Schiller
> 
> Write a story or poem or create artwork that illustrates this quotation.

The two armies faced each other. On one side, a white tree shone from the banners, high and proud – unlike the trees of this country, gnarled and crouching before the face of the sun. They were on the borders of Harad, and the sound reflected on the drawn sabres of the second army. A few banners with the Eye could be seen on that side, but they seemed to be held hesitantly. There was news that the Eye was no more…

Three riders came forth under the banner of the white tree. One of them, with a cloak pin shaped as a many-rayed star, bore the standard. The other had a white swan on his tabard and helmet. The last one… his tabard bore the same sign as was on the banners. His horse walked proudly, and the rider’s eyes were keen and commanding.

“The returned king of Gondor…” a whisper spread on the other side of the battlefield.

The three riders stopped in the middle, and everything silenced.

“I offer you peace!” the King cried out in the language of the Haradhrim. “The Eye is defeated, you don’t have to fight in its name anymore! You can return to your families, and I promise you in the name of Gondor that its armies will not attack if you don’t attack first!”

There was a whisper on the other side of the battlefield, and some of the banners wavered. They did not expect the northern king would speak their own language, or that he will offer piece for those who fought on the side of the Eye.

But another voice rose over the haradhrim army, and it was full of hatred like the hissing of a snake. “Do not listen to him, sons of Harad! He offers you mercy just to slaughter your children when you turn your back to him! Do not listen to him! Attack!”

Arrows whistled in the air, and the three men turned their horses, desperately trying to get back to the army of Gondor. The two armies rode against each other. As Aragorn reached the first lines, and turned his horse, he shook his head in frustration. Why did there always have to be someone like this? Someone like Nazim – he remembered the times when he walked under the hot sun of Harad as Thorongil. Nazim was long dead, but it seemed that many such Nazims walked under the sun, not only in Harad, but everywhere.

* * *

The Haradhrim were scattered, the Gondorians pressing them back and forcing to defend themselves instead of attacking. The battle was lost for Harad, but still they fought, for their homes and honour.

“Enough! Retreat!” a clear voice rose over the battlefield, over the cries and clang of steel. To the wonder of the Haradhrim, the gondorian army immediately obeyed the order and pulled back, despite having the upper hand in the fight.

“Listen to me, men of Harad!” the king of Gondor rode forwards again. There was a fresh cut on his cheek, but otherwise he was uninjured. Again he spoke in their own language. “The offer of peace still stands! Do not fear for your families! They will be safe, and you will remain free men if you accept it!”

The battlefield grew silent. Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment, fearing another snake voice that would cost even more lives. He killed the man himself, but one never knows where and when another Nazim can be found.

When no such voice sounded, he sighed in relief. Instead, a young man stepped forth. “We accept the offer,” he said clearly. “May there be peace between our lands.” Aragorn bowed his head, and sheathed his sword. The rest of the gondorian army followed his example, and so did the Haradhrim.

* * *

The wounded have been tended to in one place, both Haradhrim and Gondorians. Aragorn aided those who needed his help most, without regards on the banner they followed in the fight. After all of them have been tended to – and Imrahil, who insisted to clean the cut on his cheek also got what he wanted – Aragorn went to look for the young man who spoke for the Haradhrim. There was something familiar in his eyes…

When he finally found him, and saw him from close, he had to smile to himself. The likeliness was obvious. Black eyes like burning coals… “Do you know a man named Kadar?” Aragorn asked.

The young man looked up in surprise. “Kadar is the name of my grandfather, but I don’t know how you could hear of him…”

Aragorn almost held his breath, when he asked: “Is your grandfather still alive?” It was more than forty years ago, after all…

The man shook his head, puzzled that the King of Gondor might know his grandfather. “He is very old, and does not ride with us anymore, but he tells amazing stories...” He frowned, and looked at Aragorn as if wondering about some wild thought.

* * *

“Imrahil, tell Faramir and my lady that I will be away for a few days. Tell them they shouldn’t worry for me.”

Imrahil frowned, regarding his king, who was dressed like a simple traveller. What more, as a haradhrim traveller – a nomad, if he remembered the word correctly. “But my Lord, where are you going? Allow me at least to send an escort with you!”

Aragorn wanted to refuse, but then he thought for a moment. He was a king now, and could not travel alone as he wished. He will miss those times, he realized. “Very well,” he sighed. “But let them dress in the manner of this land. I don’t want to bring attention to myself.”

Imrahil shook his head. “But where are you going? What should I tell your lady?”

Aragorn smiled. “Tell her I’m going to visit an old friend.” 


	32. Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter  
> Challenge: “Write the meeting of Aragorn and Kadar! Please? Pretty please...”  
> \-- readers when the story was being first posted (and even now XD)

The old man was sitting in the shade before his tent, looking to the north. The sun was leaning low, and the heat of the day retreated into a pleasant, warm evening. Usually he would enjoy the view of the setting sun in the distance behind the dunes, of the children playing outside the tents and the women cooking the dinner on an open fire. Not now… Something was missing from this picture in the last days, in the last years. There were children, women, and old men like himself. No young men… They were all in the war, taken by the recruiters of the Eye. They tried to resist, but the recruiters were too many, and did not accept money instead of soldiers like the Khan did. Kadar sighed. There were rumours about a returning king of Gondor that defeated the Eye, and will punish Harad for siding with it. He wished he would die sooner than it happens…

Suddenly he snapped out of the gloomy thoughts. Were there riders coming from the north? If only his eyes would be as sharp as they used to! “Lad, come here!” he called at one of the children playing nearby.

The boy looked at him, then back at his friends, and approached a little fearfully. “Yes, honoured Kadar?”

“Look there, and tell me what you see!” Kadar pointed to the north.

The boy frowned in concentration as he followed the direction. “There are riders. About a dozen of them…”

Kadar took a deep breath. It could be good news… or bad ones. “Are there dressed like Northerners?” he asked, not letting the tension be heard in his voice.

“No…”

Kadar sighed with relief.

“But…”

He looked at the boy. “What is it?”

“Their horses are high and strong, like the northern ones…”

Kadar frowned. “Thank you,” he said to the boy. “You can go.” He was already able to see the riders for himself. Slowly, he stood up to face them, and the news they were bringing.

The riders were dressed in the manner of the Haradhrim, but as they got closer, he could see their pale faces. Despite his age, he stood tall and proud, prepared to defend the women and children if needed.

The first of the riders raised his hand, giving a signal to the others to stop. Then he dismounted, and walked the distance between them.

Kadar watched his face intently, as if he was not sure if he should believe his eyes. There was something familiar about this man… With every step, he was surer. He knew him once. He knows him. Finally, when the man stood before him, he could doubt no longer. “Thorongil?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.

The man smiled broadly. “Kadar! It’s really you!”

Kadar shook his head in wonder, and then laughed aloud, and embraced his old friend.

“What are you doing here?” He looked at him intently. “The years have been kind to you…”

“To you as well, my friend,” Thorongil smiled. “You have a brave grandson…”

“Have you heard of him?” Kadar asked anxiously.

“I have met him. He told me where I can find you. He will return soon, after he helps to organize the disbanding of the army. The Gondorians promised peace if Harad does not attack first…”

Kadar sighed in relief. “That’s good news! I was worried that their king might want revenge for our men being on the wrong side of the war…”

Thorongil shook his head. “No, he would not.”

“Do you know him?”

“Good enough to be sure about that.”

“That’s good then!” Kadar smiled. “I was worried for the boy. He is brave, but very reckless sometimes. He’s the son of my first daughter, Rasha… ” he paused suddenly. “Forgive an old man his ramblings. You must be thirsty… Come into my tent, and tell your men to leave the horses in the fence and join us. The water from our well is cool, and the dinner will be ready soon. I will tell the boys to care for your horses.”

“Thank you, Kadar.” Thorongil bowed his head with a smile, and returned to his men to give them the instructions. Then he joined Kadar, and together they walked into the tent. There was much they had to talk about…

There were fires and music in the camp of the nomads that night. The good news about the end of the war and the return of the men spread quickly, and the Gondorians found themselves drawn into the celebration, dancing in the quick, riveting rhythm of drums. The two old friend sat side by side, lost in their own world of memories as they talked about old times, and their lives after they parted. It was a bright night, and the stars shone clearly on the sky, the silver way of airy dreams that calls to all wanderers to follow it into its unknown depths.

* * *

It was a few days since Kadar parted with Thorongil and the Gondorians, with the promise of more visits. Again the old man was looking to the north. But this time, he smiled when a dark spot appeared on the horizon. “They are coming! They are coming!” the boy cried out immediately. Ah, the sharp sight of the youth… This time, the riders were expected. The entire camp hummed with joyful anticipation.

When they arrived, the first rider jumped down from his horse, and headed to Kadar. “Grandfather!”

“It’s good to have you back, my son!” Kadar smiled, and embraced the young man.

“The gondorian king offered us peace…”

“I know,” Kadar nodded.

“You know?” his grandson looked at him in surprise.

“An old friend told me…”

The young man shook his head. “But nobody left before us. Only the king with his escort. He asked about you…”

“The king?” Kadar was quiet for a moment, and then he smiled to himself. “The king…"


End file.
